


A Beautiful Death

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [12]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Canon/AU Plot, F/M, Mentions of sexual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 10:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That," he whispers, very slowly, "is a death sentence, Iris."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beautiful Death

**Author's Note:**

> I am going to dedicate this to MillicentCordelia and ConfectionofVenom, for the continued support, kudos, and enthusiasm for this series. Truly, your comments and views mean so much to me, and I can't thank you enough for everything. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The twenty-five year old female fished out of a back alley dumpster, four weeks prior, is the not the first or the last. Five more follow, two in one week, and the Major Crimes Unit is getting flustered. The mutilation is consistent and the stab wounds are growing in number. They have no leads, they have no information, they have nothing. It’s an old song for this department. There are also rumors that _he_ , Victor Zsasz, labeled eloquently as “Don Falcone’s rabid dog,” is responsible. He’s never been more insulted in his life.

The Gotham Police Department is also abuzz with new excitement: an escape from Arkham Asylum, a manhunt for two men listed as armed and dangerous, which warrants the presence of the police commissioner himself. Victor knows Commissioner Loeb quite well. He is one of Don Falcone’s associates—one of many—who regard Victor as a nuisance. A threat, yes, if one happens to be on Falcone’s bad side, but mostly a nuisance. It isn’t as much insulting as it is annoying. There are still people in this city who do not take him seriously. He needs to fix that, very quickly and very soon. There are some offenses which cannot stand without being addressed properly.

But it will have to wait, because the commissioner is not the only new appearance in the precinct. James Gordon himself arrives in the middle of an afternoon briefing, makes a scene, and earns himself a private meeting with the commissioner. It’s very entertaining. He hopes Gordon doesn’t get himself killed, completing a new self-appointed mission just for the sake of re-earning his own position. That pleasure belongs to Victor.

Iris and Gordon don’t have much in the way of a reunion; the Major Crimes Unit has briefly adopted her, out of desperation and need for her special brand of insight. And she certainly has insight on the matter at hand; he would be very disappointed if she didn’t. Given the depth and nature of their relationship, the years and years spent educating her on so many subjects—some fit for civilized conversation, some most certainly not—if she doesn’t know a thing or two about profiling an unorganized, sloppy, overly-impulsive killer, he has completely and utterly failed her.

At the start of week five, Iris is contacted by the unit for a private meeting. He consents to let her go alone, because he stands right outside the door where he can hear everything being said. _Everything._ Everything, including a request he wasn’t necessarily expecting and a proposal he is even less pleased to hear. When she emerges, fifteen minutes after she entered, he already has an answer even though she doesn’t ask a question.

“No.”

“Victor, do not be that way.”

“I will be that way. No.”

She isn’t amused with his display, demonstrating as much by mimicking his crossed arms and set jaw. “This is important to them, Victor. They need my assistance, and it would be rude to refuse.”

“Rude to refuse?” he repeats, slowly, just so she can hear the complete absurdity of what just came out of her mouth. “Iris, this isn’t an invitation to tea. You have no business in a place like that.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Then you are familiar with the setting?”

“Yes, hence the reason I can say, with great confidence, _you_ will not become familiar with it.”

“Victor,” she leads him around the corner, to a secluded little pocket of the hallway, checks to make sure they are in fact alone, and then fixes him with a look; he recognizes the look from her younger years, often from when she would announce her intention to take part in some ridiculous and unnecessary course of action, just to prove a point, “I am not asking permission. I am going to do it. Besides, you act as though I will be unprotected.”

He matches her expression. “If they can sit in there to keep an eye on you, they can just as easily find someone else to do the job.”

“They are not going to be in there with me.” She says, as though the idea is ludicrous. “They would be, as the phrase goes, made in half a minute. No. I am going in alone, to see if anyone has any helpful information. Not as bait, not as a coy temptation, just for information.”

She takes a step forward, irritation fading into something else. “Am I to assume then…you will not be with me?”

“Of course not, Iris.” He retorts. “I’m going to be sitting at home, curled up with a good book, and when my employer—your great-uncle—calls to check in on you, I will be informing him that I sent you off into one of Gotham’s most disreputable sex clubs, alone and unprotected, where you could very easily be plucked up by the city’s newest serial killer. Who, I might add, _I_ am presently labeled as.”

“Then you _will_ be with me.”

She can be the most impossible female creature on the planet sometimes; of everything he just said to her, _that_ one little detail is the one to stick. “Yes.” He slowly answers. “I will be with you. And I don’t want to hear one word about _exercising restraint_ when you’re in the company of the scum and filth of the city, do you understand me?”

Her eyes are alight, and the kiss she presses to his cheek is followed by a warm nuzzle beneath his jaw. It’s endearing enough, but not enough to make him feel relaxed. His gun is just begging to put a bullet in the heads of everyone who even considered this idea, let alone had the lacking brain function to actually implement it into reality. He may not let her return to work after this night, not if _this_ is what she is surrounded by on a daily basis.

More to the point, now that Gordon is back in the department, Don Falcone may see his presence as no longer warranted, with the return of her knight in shining armor. He may be ordered to step down, bow out like a gentleman, bid Iris a gentle farewell and entrust her once more into the care of her devoted detective. He'd just as soon eat his gun.

By the time evening falls and he's accompanying her inside _The Devil’s Parlor_ , his mood hasn’t improved. He knows this place only too well, both from his younger, uninformed years and from a few special assignments from Don Falcone. It’s a pit of debauchery, scandal, and sexual exploitation; a place of violent red walls, black tile floors, and a faint haze of smoke—both cigarette and other illicit drugs—lingering throughout every room. There is no shame and there is no concept of decency here: couples, and the occasional mass group, engage freely and in the open, though thankfully most of the true displays occur on the second floor, not ground level by the entrance.

Several women, the kind dressed in silk with sultry smiles who present themselves as a lover of pain and desirer of suffering, give him coy glances as they pass by. He fits in here, black suit declaring him wealthy enough to be a fine meal ticket, and a few of them think him handsome enough to enjoy the evening’s activities, should they be fortunate enough to get him in bed. He keeps himself in the far corner, another fine vantage point, where he has full view of the room and everyone in it. Those who attempt to grab his attention are ignored; there is only one who has his attention right now.

He has never envisioned Iris in black leather, or any kind of similar attire. He’s always thought it beneath her, too cheap and too indecent for her modest style. In consideration of this place and its reputation, he’d thought perhaps he might have to stomach it tonight, deal with it, and then once this night is over he will never have to think about it again. All of that may yet be true, because he’s certainly forcing himself to stomach it and deal with it, jaw locked and eyes glowering, but not because the black leather doesn’t suit her.

No, because Fate has such a twisted sense of humor, it’s quite the opposite. She looks exquisite. The skirt’s hem is far too short, but she’s wearing black tights; the dress is open down the back, revealing the elegant curve of her spine, but the front offers proper coverage, the sleeves are long, and the neckline never reveals more than is respectable. Her hair is drawn up, with more care and attention than usual. The sleek fabric clings and clutches jealously, and showcases every line and perfect shape of her body. Her lips are dark, red, the shade of fresh blood, and his tongue flicks against his teeth, imagining their taste, their fit against his, exploring every small detail that makes their shape so delicate and feminine.

She is young, likely the youngest here, an exotic beauty in black leather, new meat, fresh blood, a new delicacy on the menu. Men and women alike have taken notice since she walked in the door. The men have taken particular notice; some just linger and look, others are bold and approach. No one has yet been foolish enough to touch her, but their eyes look on and roam freely, unchecked, and his fingers are twitching against the sleeve of his jacket. Most of them, he can tolerate their examination; the rest are ogling, shamelessly, far too long and with tongues licking lips indecently. There are at least five who will be losing their eyes by week’s end.

Iris mingles as necessary, but not with shyness or uncertainty. She is clearly determined to not seem out of place. Any misstep within these walls is a great risk; there are many of Gotham’s elite here, with reputations to protect, and they are careless enough to behave irrationally, should they even suspect a threat. But no one suspects anything with her; she behaves like a true lady of the night, her gaze sharp and her tongue silver, never the playful coquette but the confident and seasoned temptress. She toys with some, but never seduces: a cat playing with her mouse and then tossing it aside without interest.

It’s obscene, really. Not the amount of attention she’s receiving, but the way he can’t take his eyes off her. She is never a child in his eyes, but tonight she is truly a woman. A fine lady, beautiful, so very beautiful, too beautiful. Her elegant form, every graceful and perfectly-cast inch of her sculpt; the way her dark hair catches the colored lights mounted above and inky strands briefly flash red or purple or gold; the soft brush of feathery eyelashes when she blinks, or when she lowers her eyelids in conversation, to tease the hopeful fools; the flash of her brilliant eyes when her eyelids snap open and she steps away with cold deliberation; the smooth shape of her lips…

He briefly closes his eyes, draws in a slow breath, and carefully releases it. Nothing changes, nothing helps. There is fire in his veins tonight. Hellfire, and she is the siren tempting him to cast himself into the flames and burn. He has felt the desire to kiss her, more than once, before this. But tonight, it is no longer a desire. Tonight, it is an obsessive and fervent compulsion. Kiss her, touch her, claim her, devour her. All of her. Every last inch and piece of her body and mind and soul.

Late into the third hour of this venture, the game changes. She captures the attention of someone new, a man who has kept to the shadows and lingered in the background all this time. When she is alone, the crowd thinned and widely dispersed around her, he approaches as though another paramour vying for her company. Victor pays only mild interest at first—this one looks no different than the rest, a thin and awkward wisp of a man with a nervous tick in his left hand—but as they converse, Iris catches his eye over the man’s shoulder. He knows that look. He knows that look very well.

This one behaves in direct contradiction with his appearance, boldly taking her elbow as though leading her in a dance, but his other hand is nowhere to be seen, and ushering her away from the crowd. No one casts a questioning look; most don’t think anything of it, and the rest value their own well-being far too much to get involved. Victor is not among the rest, never one of the mindless sheep, and he follows with slow, gliding footsteps across the room. His movements are silent, a tiger stalking his prey in the night, eyes never losing sight, never blinking, and no one tries to distract him. Better they don’t, for their sake; his hand already has a knife in hand, hidden away beneath his jacket, and slitting the throat of man or woman who happens to get in his way will require all the necessary force of taking a deep breath.

_Mine._

The man leads Iris outside, into the darkness, where only the moon and a single street lamp illuminate the scene below. As Victor follows, hand swiftly catching the back door before it closes, the moon glints off a knife resting at Iris’ side. The man is speaking quietly; the exact words are inaudible, but the way he moves the knife towards her inner thigh says plenty.

_She is mine. She is my only._

There is a moment, just a short, fleeting moment, when Victor stops and meets her gaze in the shadows. A sudden and unexpected surge of emotion takes him, inspired solely by the peace in her eyes and the complete absence of fear. She doesn’t even look Death in the eye as he threatens her womanhood, but seeks her tiger in the night and finds solace in his presence. She is relaxed, holding his gaze; he knows she understands the look in his eyes, the unspoken promises of what is to come. He doesn’t know what to expect from her now, in this moment, when there is only one course of action to follow. But he does know the best way to find out.

_You will not take her. No one will ever take her._

When the knife drives through the man’s lower back and he releases a broken howl of agony, she barely blinks. When Victor dislodges the blade from the spine, lets the man crumple, and then resets it within the tender dip of his throat, right at the hollow, where the skin is soft and tender and unprotected, she steps back, towards the wall to give him room, but her eyes never waver. While he cups the back of the man’s head and slowly, gently, drags the blade up, up, up to the base of his jaw, she watches, observes in silence, with curiosity and wonder and—dare he think it?—fascination in her eyes. Emotion is detached. The gurgling wails permeating the air do not affect her, nor does the steady flow of blood, almost black in the poor light, spilling out from the gaping wound. She watches him like a medical student does a dissection.

He’s made a hasty mess of this one, again; he should have been more elegant, taken his time, granted her the kind of view he promised, but a poorly-lit alley isn’t the place for it. Next time, it will be in his basement, with stainless steel all around and plenty of light, and he can take all the time he wants. And he will. He’ll be slow, careful, meticulous. Whatever she wants to see, wherever she needs him to cut, he will. He will be the teacher again, and she will be his student. The anticipation alone makes his mouth water.

His hand releases the man’s head, lifeless body slumping forward and coming to rest in the growing pool of blood. He knows his clothes are a mess, as is his hand, and he knows someone would have heard all that racket. Even this den of sex-driven rats will abandon the proverbial ship at the sound of screams. One of them might even be foolish enough to call the police.

Iris is still examining the body, but when she feels his gaze on her, he quickly earns her rapt attention. Her eyes drift down to his hand; the street lamp isn’t much for illumination, but she can see the dark stain and the bloodied knife. He’s sure her mind’s eye is envisioning the stain across his pants and jacket sleeve. Unfortunately, her expression is providing no insight into her thoughts. He can’t tell if he terrified her, if she’s now coming out of her emotionless spell and appreciating the reality of this situation, or if she’s in shock.

“We’re leaving.” He says, taking hold of her arm. He can worry about the inner workings of her mind later. Right now, this is no place for her to be.

***

The water turns red as soon as he sets his hands beneath the flow. It takes him longer than usual to clean the knife, his hands, and the rings, one after the other. This one was a bit messier than usual, and he’s a little surprised at how much the man bled. He didn’t hit a major artery, that he recalls, but his knife is covered from tip to hilt, his hands stained as though he were wearing dirty gloves, and he can feel the weight of his blood-soaked clothes heavy against his frame. He’ll probably have to burn these; there are some stains that just won’t come out, and he refuses to wear soiled clothes.

Behind him, the bathroom door clicks open; his eyes dart up to the mirror and find Iris leaning against the frame. Her expression hasn’t changed since they left the alley and returned to his home, but her gaze is ever attentive on his face in the mirror. Briefly, blue eyes flick down to the sink, to the red stain before it’s washed away, and then back to him.

“Are you afraid yet, Iris?” he asks; the silence is getting old, and if he has to be the one to break it, then he will.

“I have seen you hunting.” She answers, softly. “I know what kind of hunter you are. But I have never seen you hunt to the end. I have known what it is you are willing to do, what you are capable of, always in my thoughts and unspoken knowledge. I have just…never seen it.”

Her tone is as unreadable as her expression. “I ask again,” he says, slowly turning around and facing her, “are you afraid?”

“…Afraid?” she repeats, as though she doesn’t understand the question, as though the word itself doesn’t make sense.

“Afraid.” He echoes, taking a few steps forward, never blinking or looking away from her face. “Yes, you’ve always known, just like people know gravity exists and the sky is blue and the earth is round. You know, because it’s an accepted fact between us. And I’ve let you keep your blissful ignorance. Six years, I’ve let you know but never forced you to see. I’ve played your game, Iris. And I’ve played it with grace and a willingness to humor you.”

He’s less than six inches away, and there is nowhere for her to go, no place to escape. He has her against the wall, literally, and he continues forward without pause. “But the game has grown old, my precious. It has grown stale, and I have grown bored of playing it. And I think you know it is… _unwise_ to keep me bored.”

Three more steps; he can see the flash of her throat with each breath, and he can count the beats of her pulse. “You ask me if _I_ could ever love you.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “Perhaps you should be asking…can _you_ ever love me? I ask you that now, Iris. Can you? You’ve always known who and what I am. Now, you truly know. You have seen my work—my true work—with your own eyes. You’ll continue to see it for a week, maybe more. You’ll see how his body contorted when I stuck my knife in his spine. You’ll hear the way he howled and shrieked like a wounded animal. You’ll see the blood flowing out of him, smell it in the air, taste it on your tongue. You’ll remember, every time you close your eyes and every time you see my face, that I did it for you. And you’ll know, had I been given the chance, it would not have been so quick. Had I been given the chance, I would have gutted him, dissected him, cut every fiber in his body, let him linger for days, maybe even weeks, because he threatened you. Nothing more, nothing less. He threatened you, and I would have shown him true hell on earth for it. As it stands, I did not, but only because time didn’t allow for it. But one day, time will allow for it, and you will see just what I am capable of and what I will do for you.”

There is no space left between them now. He feels the beat of her heart, echoed from her chest to his, and he shares her every breath. “I ask you again, Iris,” he breathes, eyes focused solely on her lips, on the new forms they make as she draws breath through their parted shape, “can _you_ love _me_?”

She says nothing, only holds his gaze with hers for the longest five minutes of his life. Then, he feels her hand settle on his face, fingers brushing lightly across his cheek with her thumb grazing his lower lip. She seems intently focused on that part of his mouth, seeing something he can’t see, without the mirror to assist him, but whatever it is, it has her undivided attention.

“He touched you.” Iris whispers; the comment jars him for a moment, and he stops to think when, if at all, the man touched him. He thinks for another long minute, but even the most careful examination of his memory yields nothing. His prey never had a chance to touch him, not even try and grab him and fight for his—

“His blood is on you,” she continues, in the same whisper, “here.” her thumb suddenly presses more deliberately to his lower lip, gaze still intent on that spot. _Oh._ There must be some cast-off there. He didn’t even notice.

“He touched you.” She repeats. “And he has touched what is mine. Your lips are _mine_. Your kiss is _mine_. And his blood has touched it.”

He registers her forward movement, but he misses the slight tilt of her head and the further parting of her lips until he feels the tip of her tongue run along his lower lip. Her eyes never close, never leave his, but his ultimately snap shut as a violent shiver racks his entire frame. There’s no explanation for it; he has been involved in far more scandalous and indecent displays than this, but to see it and feel it and know Iris—this woman seen by the city as only a broken and battered child, defenseless and in need of protection and tender care—just laid claim to his mouth in such a way, to know she held resentment and jealousy towards the dead for leaving a visible stain…the surge of burning arousal takes him, disorients him, and he almost misses her next words in the sudden haze.

“You search my eyes for fear.” She whispers, lips brushing his with each word. “But you find none. Are you prepared for what you _do_ find, my tiger in the night?”

Prepared for? Probably not. But she’s not giving him much choice in the matter, with her gaze clear and open, every thought exposed and ready to be read. He has no alternative but to see it, to understand it, and to know she isn’t treating this lightly. He wishes she would. He would like for this to be a little game, because then it can come to an end and he can punish her for playing with him.

“As you said,” Iris continues; her other hand slides slowly up his chest, fingers curling in the fabric, “we have played this game. Six years, we have played this game and it has served its purpose. But the game is old. And I am tired of playing it, Victor.”

Her body rests flush to his, only flimsy fabric barriers between them, and cloth does nothing to disguise the heat, the fire beneath her skin. “You were so concerned about my well-being, my safety.” Her voice lowers. “My tiger, devoted to my protection, as always. And yet in doing so, you have neglected yourself.”

It’s then that she slips away, freeing herself and stepping over to the sink, where the knife is drying on the porcelain rim. Her long fingers curl around the hilt, stroking slightly; it’s probably innocent enough, but the sight makes his body throb violently. As does the look in her eyes when she turns back to face him, knife in hand, and returns to his side.

“You did not.” She says, very softly, her other hand sliding along his exposed forearm, caressing the scars. “And so…let me.”

“Iris…”

She gently hushes him, cupping his wrist in hand and stroking the tender flesh with her thumb. “Trust in me, my tiger. Trust in me, as I trust in you.” She brings his hand to her lips and sets a slow, lingering kiss to the skin, to the set of scars that are almost complete, in need of just one more mark to be a full set, and nuzzles him there. “Let me make this beautiful.”

He doesn’t quite give an answer, but his silence—or, more specifically, his expression—seems to speak for him. She drops her gaze to his arm, to the damaged skin. Her expression changes, from gentle and coaxing to meticulous and calculating; the scientist’s mind, with keen eyes and a sharp gaze and each thought carefully plotted down to the tiniest detail. He cherishes this view, watching her mind at work, seeing the way her eyes narrow, widen, and narrow again with each new thought, the little tilt to her head as she examines and calculates, the soft and measured exhale she releases as she shifts his arm into the best position and lifts the knife in place, setting the blade’s tip to his skin. 

A beat, a short breath of time, a moment suspends between them, and he knows this would, could, should be the moment when he stops her, when he tells her enough is enough, that this game— _if it even is a game_ —has gone on too long and she needs to stop before—

She applies the pressure, the blade sinks into his skin, and her hand slowly drags it backwards, towards her. The blood comes slow, a thin trickle, and then more, darker, faster, thicker; a broken river dribbling over the old marks—none of which have completely healed, not really, not properly—and each one is reopened with the angled cut, the fifth in the set. More blood, more thin streams of crimson, leaking outward, sliding across his arm, clutching briefly, frantically, at his skin before falling, drop after drop after drop, to the floor.

His nerves are on fire. Not from pain, but something else. Something that feels like ecstasy. Something that assaults him on all fronts, surges liquid fire through his veins and pools deep in his core, leaves him dizzy and disoriented and with one and only one coherent thought. One, _only one…_

Iris exhales again, just as slowly and carefully, releases his arm so she can wash the blade clean again and return it to the sink’s edge, and then turns back to face him, yet again. “Thirty-five.” She whispers. 

He’s looking for a flicker of horror, disgust, terror as she realizes just what she’s done…but there’s none of that. There’s something else. She’s not calm and detached; her gaze is dark, burning, and each breath is measured carefully, and she’s standing perfectly still. Almost as though she doesn’t trust herself to move, or breathe, or do anything. And she’s shaking. She’s shaking violently.

“Come here, Iris.” He whispers; she isn’t the only one who’s shaking. Actually, he might be worse than she is, right now; each throb from the bleeding marks on his arm isn’t registering as pain, but pleasure. So much, too much, not enough. “Come to me, my sweet girl.”

She doesn’t refuse him. Her legs are visibly trembling, and her hands are fisted tight at each side, but still she obeys and comes to stand before him. One hand slides into her hair, cupping, tangling fingers in her dark mass and savoring the silken texture. After a moment’s consideration, he leans forward and presses his face into the soft strands, inhaling slowly, taking in the sweet scent of her hair, her skin, everything natural, nothing less.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He says, after a pause, fingers still in her hair, sliding in and out, leaving and losing his grip in black silk.

“Do you _want_ me to answer?” she asks, just as softly; her fingers curl around his arm, brushing ghostly caresses over the bloody marks. “You would not look in my eyes, Victor. I can only believe, then, you do not yet want to hear the words.”

“I want to hear them, if you mean them.” His grip tightens, just a little. “I want to hear them if you have never said them to another human being, dead or alive. I want to hear them if you understand, without question and without hesitation, what they mean.”

She tilts her head back, to meet his gaze; her eyes are steady, unwavering, and he’s delirious enough with sensation right now to believe she’s seeing past the exterior and reading every thought on his mind. “What more must I do, Victor?” she finally asks, quietly. “What else must I say? You raised me. You took me away from that place, into a cold night with a cold moon above, and I was safe. I did not have to hear my parents declare in three different languages that they despised each other, that they would love to see each other dead on the street, that they blamed the other for creating the little parasite which fastened the chains between them.”

Her grip on his arm tightens, tugging him closer. “You think I do not know you, Victor, and perhaps in many ways I still do not. But I do know you are hesitant to hear the answer to your question because it means I truly do not fear you. It means even when we met, and you held a knife to my throat in the cold and the dark, and you told me to choose how long it would take for me to die that night, I felt safe, and I felt at peace, because up until that night, I knew I was going to die in the room my mother created, just for me, with mirrors along every single inch of wall, ceiling, and floor, and I would die a slow, agonizing death in that room, surrounded by reflections of how my body was breaking apart and decaying from neglect. Up until that night,” her hand suddenly brings his to her chest, over her heart; the blood smears between her fingers, but she barely blinks, “I was going to die alone.”

Her voice lowers, barely above a whisper. “But that night, I was at peace, and I was safe. Because I was not going to die alone. You would have been there with me.”

Another moment passes in silence, him trying to remember how to breathe properly and her examining the mark she has left on him. “You were right, my tiger. You told me there was no way to explain love, how it feels to love and be loved. I simply had to learn.”

“Iris…”

“I have thought, over these six years past, I would never learn. People do not love me. They pity me. They pity my cheap, laughable excuse for an existence, and they are grateful that they shall never be so miserable and worthless and lowly in their lives. I look in their eyes and I see it.” She tilts her head and slowly kisses his knuckles, one after the other. “But I look into the eyes of a tiger in the night, and I see his wanting, his desire, and his vow that he will avenge me in blood, rip offenders apart with teeth and claw and cold precision, and then he will return to me,” the fingers of her other hand glide slowly across his cheek, brushing, caressing, stroking, “and come to rest in my arms.”

“Iris,”

“I do.” She whispers, eyes unblinking. “I thought it would be impossible, but I do. I know love, when I am in my tiger’s embrace and his claws are still bloody and his lips still have death on them. I know love, when I watch your face and see you calculate the appropriate punishment for an insult against me. I know love, when I watch, with my own eyes, you rip into living flesh and let your prey bleed to death, because he held a knife to my body and threatened my life. I know love, when I look to my side and I see you have never left me. You stand beside me, you protect me, you avenge me. You do what no other in this city will ever do, my tiger. And yet you look in my eyes and try to find fear. Why do you seek _fear_ when you know there is only fire in my soul?”

“ _Iris_ ,”

“I want you.” She continues, undeterred, unmoved by the tone of his voice and the way his fingers are twitching without control against her chest. “I need you. I would die for you, but only after I have killed for you. You are my mate, my tiger, my one and only. _I love you_ , Victor Zsasz.”

He has to close his eyes, even briefly, before the look in hers unravels him completely. He’s already halfway there—the threads of self-control are frayed and plucking apart, one by one, like a knife cutting violin string—but not yet, _not yet_. 

“That,” he slowly whispers; the words strain at his vocal cords, and if he speaks any louder than the softest tone he can muster, what comes out will not sound like him, or even human for that matter, “is a death sentence, Iris.”

“And it is a beautiful death.” She whispers, the final words of a condemned soul, spoken with calm conviction, and before he can collect enough coherent thoughts to respond, the hand resting on his face tightens its grip and pulls him to her lips, and in the instant her mouth touches his and she’s kissing him without skill or experience, but with all the urgency and desperation of the dying, he dismisses the thought of coherency and the need for further arguments. Gotham sees him as the Devil disguised in human flesh, Hades himself come to collect souls early. And Hades did not wait and pine for Persephone with a weak heart and fear of her rejection. No. No, he came for her, with arms clutching and possessive hands and a heart determined to never again release her, his bride, his perfect beauty in the darkness.

He buries both hands in her hair, tilts his head, and takes over command of the kiss. She doesn’t fight him, only acquiesces with a soft moan that sends a violent rush of heat through his veins. The cool leather of her dress brushes his bare skin, here and there. Cool leather barely disguising the blazing fire in her skin. The black leather dress she wore tonight, and men ogled and devoured her with their eyes in this dress, and one of them saw her and was inspired to deadly lust just from the look.

He growls into the kiss, nipping her lower lip in the process; her soft gasp grants him the access he wants—no, _needs_ —and he tugs her head back, tilts his again, and groans as he finally learns her taste. Exquisite, delicious.

Iris is tentative, uncertain, at this new gesture. It is immensely satisfying to see her suddenly shy, to know she has never been kissed before, never kissed, and never kissed _this_ way. It’s also enough to slow his pace, guide her and coax her instead of simply dominating and devouring. His hands on her face, brushing fingertips slowly and delicately over the skin, seem to relax her even more, and after only a short moment of tenancy, she sighs quietly and meets his tongue with hers.

He’s always known stealing every bit of her innocence would be satisfying in its own way, but he hadn’t previously expected just how thrilling it would be. How exciting. How enthralling and overwhelming. And it hasn’t been all at once; it’s been steps, piece by piece, and he knows there is still much, much more…but not tonight. This is a prize he will savor, like a fine meal.

He presses her back into the wall, one hand still on her face, lips still on hers, while the other hand slips into his back pocket and finds the slick metal of his switchblade. This one is special, hence the reason he refuses to use it for work, because if it gets dirty he will never forgive himself. This one was his father’s, and he carries it less for use and more for the secure comfort of feeling it tucked close by. Sentimental, yes, but that’s a crime to which he’s willing to confess.

The blade rests at the dip in her neckline, and then descends with the necessary pressure. The soft hiss of fabric being slit open is sweet music to his ears. So much so, in fact, that he doesn’t stop with the front, but breaks the kiss to continue downward, to the skirt’s hem, and then back to the sleeves, dissecting it apart, piece by piece, taking care to never nick her skin. As the black leather falls apart, miles and miles of porcelain white flesh comes into view. He could spend hours, days even, paying homage to her body.

She obediently shrugs out of what little remains, when he’s done, and then kicks it aside with one foot before pulling him back to her lips. He opts to keep his eyes open, drinking in the sight of her in a silk brassiere, underwear, thigh-high stockings, and sleek leather heels, black and black and black and black. Delicious. He wants to devour every last inch of her.

“I want you, sweet girl.” He whispers against her lips, nipping lightly for emphatic purposes. “Just like this.”

“I thought you liked me naked.” She murmurs affectionately, nuzzling here, nibbling there, hands running unchecked across his chest and back, tugging his jacket off and pushing it away before going to the buttons of his shirt.

“I do.” He kisses a slow path from her chin to ear. “But right now, like this…you are the fantasy of saints and sinners alike. And I _want you_.”

Both hands run firmly down her chest, along her sides, and capture her hips long enough to drag the underwear away and toss aside. She shivers—whether it’s at the gesture or the look in his eyes, he can’t tell and doesn’t really care—and watches as he straightens back up and rests heavily against her. Her breath catches slightly, eyes fluttering closed briefly, and arches forward before exhaling heavily. It’s all very innocent, and he has to take a moment to remember himself before he simply takes her right here.

Or at least, he had the noble intention of such. But she doesn’t stop there. Her eyes fall downward, watching each motion with a hungry gaze but fascinated attention, hips continuing a primal dance against his, each one forward arch more insistent than the first, and when her fingers finally get his shirt open and he feels those slender digits against his bare skin, the final thread of self-control snaps so violently he can almost hear it.

He thought she might resist him, or object with words, but she doesn’t. He crushes her to the wall, both hands fitting beneath her thighs and hoisting her legs around his waist, and she responds by kissing him, again and again and again, until she can’t breathe. He fights, without patience and without finesse, with his pants for a moment before deciding there’s no need to keep them intact, because he really never will get all that blood out of the fabric, and rips his way to freedom.

She whimpers when he takes her, too rough and too hasty; he barely hears it, with the blood rushing hard and fast through his ears. It’s easy to lose himself inside her, in her heat and the intoxicating scent of her body, her skin, everything that is so naturally and completely _her_. A dizzying aroma that clouds his mind, disorienting and consuming and—

“Victor, stop.” Iris suddenly whispers, fingers clenching down and nails pinching his skin. “ _Stop_. Please. Please, just…slow down.”

He does stop, because while Iris didn’t cry out or scream or start crying hysterically—all of which would be clear signs of distress, as opposed to a whispered plea—he knows her far better than anyone, and she’s quivering in his arms, her eyes are closed, her brow is furrowed, and each breath is sharp and unsteady. Which means he’s truly been too rough, too hasty, too unrefined with this, and he’s hurt her.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl.” He whispers, kissing a slow path from her jaw to her hairline, running one hand along her slick and damp skin, fingers caressing and soothing the trembling nerves. “Shhh…relax. Relax for me, precious.”

While she’s slowly catching her breath and her body is adjusting, his attention is focused on sensation, on letting his body determine what his eyes can’t see. Of course, he feels the heat of her body, the undeniable proof that she wants him and needs him, but he’s seeking something else, something that, if present, will testify to the extent of his aggression against her. After a very long moment, he relaxes in turn. There’s no indication he’s caused real damage to her body, no presence of blood to declare he injured her. It is a true relief, because the day he harms her beyond repair is the day he puts a bullet in his head.

The blood in his veins has at least cooled enough to permit a bit of logic. This position is clearly not acceptable; he’s hurting her, and she’s uncomfortable. He is rather touched she indulged his frantic eagerness, but now it is time for a change in venue. And, to be perfectly honest, his mouth is watering at the thought of seeing her, still dressed in black silk, atop the crimson sheets of his bed.

She gives a surprised little gasp when he suddenly shifts away from the wall, keeping her legs tight around his waist with one hand and using the other to balance her. He drinks in that sound with another kiss, blindly navigating his way to the bed and then descending when his knees meet the mattress edge. When the cool sheets brush her heated skin, Iris sighs quietly, brings both arms around his neck and returns the kiss with renewed fire. There. _That_ ’s his girl.

He crawls forward, pausing only when he’s directly above her and has the backs of her legs mounted atop his thighs. The new angle is a surprise for her, but any confusion fades with her next moan as he slowly resumes the pace. He takes his time now, regaining and re-earning her pleasure, her wanting, her hungering fire. She played submissive for him; now, he wants his girl back. His mate, his she-wolf, not a victim, not a meek little lamb.

Her teeth graze his lower lip before catching it, nipping lightly, and then stroking the mark with her tongue; he tilts his head and meets her halfway, savoring her taste with low growls. He catches the metallic tinge of his blood on her tongue, and the spark in his veins burns anew.

She carries the kiss on for several delicious moments, then slowly draws back, smiling a bit when he follows, but doesn’t let him catch her. “Roll on your back.” she whispers, running both hands down his back and sides with nails scraping and scratching lightly. “Please. I want you, my tiger. Let me have you.”

There’s no refusal; the sight of her above him is far too intoxicating, arousing, an exquisite thing to behold. She is graceful in all things, but like this, holding his body hostage to her pleasure, riding him as slow and as fast as she pleases, she possesses a serpentine grace and elegance, swaying, arching, moving in ways that, perhaps, should be physically impossible. But damned if he’ll point out the questionable logistics of her body’s movements when it sets him on fire over and over and over again.

Iris catches his hands, entwining their fingers, and sets them at her lower back; she then backtracks up his arms, eyes attentive to the scars, especially the newest one, the one _she_ gave him—the thought alone produces a dizzying rush of heat—with gentle caresses and delicate adoration. He wants to feel her lips, feel her kiss the damaged skin, but he can wait. He can wait.

Her whimpers and breathless gasps grow in pitch, in frequency, in urgency, and his grip on her tightens as his eyes drink in every last detail of her image above him. “Look at me.” He whispers, one hand gliding across her slick skin, tracing the shape of her spine to her shoulder blades. “Look at me, sweet girl. Look at me, love.”

Her eyes snap open, find his, and her next breath is a shuddering exhale quickly lost against his lips as she kisses him in a way she hasn’t before. She kisses him like he’s her last source of oxygen, of sustenance, of life. She kisses him like she can’t live without him. She kisses like a woman in love.

***

She falls asleep in his arms tonight; hair damp and heavy and an inky veil tossed across her shoulder and dribbling lightly across his skin, arm across his stomach, hand resting on his chest, head tucked into the crook of his neck. Her skin is still warm, like a dying ember in the fireplace. Her heartbeat has steadied, but he can still feel it against him, each beat delicate and tender, almost close enough that he could reach inside and capture it within his grasp. Maybe if he does, he’ll understand her thoughts and her desires. He’ll understand just why, _why_ she can look at him with love. Not affection, but love. She loves him. She is in love with him.

It is a condemning vow, to love him. Even more so when she proclaimed it to his face. For her to say it, looking him directly in the eye without as much as a blink…she might as well have sealed it in blood. She has vowed her love, offered her heart into his hands, and he is obliged to hold her to that promise. There will be no conditions or restrictions permitted; she loves him, and she will love him until the day she dies. To swear her love for him as condemned her, for the rest of her life. 

But for _him_ to love _her_ would be a true death sentence. He wonders if she knows, if she’s even entertained the possibility in her mind, of just what it what it would mean, should he ever come to love her. He wonders how long she’s known she loved him. He wonders how long she’s kept this secret from him.

But perhaps it is not so terrible, for her to love him. Perhaps it is not so terrible to be loved. He’s been loved before. His parents loved him, very much, and he loved them. He knows love; he’s been loved and has loved. Perhaps this isn’t a bad thing. He can let her love him, because it means she will not wander too far, and it means she will always return to him, without waver and without permitting distractions to come between them. He’ll let her love him, because it means she is truly his and not even Jim Gordon can come between them.

He smiles to himself, kisses her forehead, and rests his cheek atop the warm skin. She is soft, and warm, and perfect. She is tucked securely against him, of her own will and desire, and she is safe and secure even when asleep, because she is with him. She is with him, and she loves him.

_I love you, Victor Zsasz._ He’s already starting to like the sound of that.


End file.
